


Breathe

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post Rôti, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, season one, suffocation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chilton is having a panic attack.</p><p>
  <em>I hate that I do not know if the pain is physical or psychological. But it is there. And it is real.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> If you want something to listen to while you read, I would like to suggest Spectrum by Florence + The Machine. Enjoy!

To be honest, I don't know why. I really, really do not know. But at times I feel like I am suffocating.

There is a rope tied around my neck, its tail dangling down my back and something, I do not know what or who, but something or someone grabs on and pulls and pulls and pulls and pulls. I feel the strain against my windpipe and I struggle to breathe. I claw at the ropes but it does not do a thing. I realize that they are not really there but I still cannot breathe. And suddenly I close my eyes and I am back in that dark room, in the observatory, nearly passed out from the drugs and the pain but he wants me to be awake so he slaps me until I open my eyes again. I cannot stop feeling his hands as they dug around recklessly inside of my stomach, and even though I was not awake for it, I feel the slimy, wet sensation of my own insides resting in my palms. 

I am not well. But I refuse to get help. I am the one who is supposed to give help, and I refuse to be put into therapy because of what a patient has done. I am not the only psychiatrist to be attacked by a patient. I am not the last. But I'll be damned if I let this ruin me. 

I cannot stop looking at myself in the mirror, shirtless. The scar is so long and clean and straight. I was never able to do that when I was in training. I cannot touch it because it hurts, even though it is healed. I hate that I do not know if the pain is physical or psychological. But it is there. And it is real.

I sit down on the cold floor and I wait and wait for the man pulling at the ropes to stop but he does not. I open my mouth and wait for my lungs to expand but my mouth is just filled with the oxygen that refuses to enter my body. I want to breathe. I want to breathe. 

The sweat drips down from my forehead and into my eyes so I have to keep blinking to get it out, but I cannot blink fast enough and my vision starts to blur. Soon, all I can see is the blurred colours around me: the grey of the bathroom tiles, the beige of the wooden cabinets, the white of the walls, the silver of the faucet.

The lime green of her toothbrush. 

I try to concentrate on it, but I panic as the sweat in my eyes allows the overwhelming amount of neutral shades to overpower the green and I can no longer see it. The rope is getting tighter and tighter and I feel as if my chest is caving in and I double over, trying to gasp in air but I still cannot breathe and I am terrified of having everything go black again. 

But why has this affected my lungs? Why is it that I do not fear surgeons, or their tools, and why is it that I do not fear observatories? 

I am so terrified of not being able to breathe, of suffocation, of having darkness enclose my vision so I can only see black, so I cannot tell if my eyes are opened or closed. 

And this is how she finds me. She comes to me like a breeze blows, practically floating in the air with her light-footed steps. Her eyes are so cold, but it's all just a facade. I know who she is underneath. And she is warm. She is caring. She is so much more than what people say she is.

She can see me so clearly. Says she recognizes when the ropes are being pulled against me because she says that's how I looked when she met me. And what a horrific meeting that was. But even with the life being pulled out of me, I could not stop looking at her; the bright blue of her eyes had become so fuzzy from my obscured vision and it took all of me to focus all my energy on her, but it was all I could do. And surrounding the blue was the wild fire that was her hair. Like a Rothko of orange and blue, blue and orange, orange and blue. All I could see was orange and blue and I wanted to cry out when the darkness had closed around the colours and all I was left with was black.

She knows what I look like when I cannot breathe. Even then, she had been the one to get me to breathe.

She kneels before me and I open my eyes. My vision is still blurred but the greys have transformed into that ever so familiar blend of orange and blue. It should be enough to make me panic, to make me go into hysterics, because I see what I saw then, but my heartbeat only slows down. I am no longer sweating and my eyes begin to blink away the moisture so that I can see again. 

She looks so beautiful when she is worried. The softness in the way she looks at me betrays the frozen colour of her eyes. 

She drags her fingers down my throat before her hand wraps lightly around my neck. My mouth opens at the gentle scratch of her fingernails against my skin. The pressure of her hand makes my pulse prominent, and I know she can feel it against her hand. It is like a reminder to the both of us that I am alive.

And suddenly, I can breathe. The rope is gone. It is replaced with something physical, something real. 

And what is real is not choking me. It is opening up my windpipes and lungs. It is helping me straighten up and pick myself up off the ground. Her hand trails over my scar, and it does not hurt. It does not burn under her touch. She kisses my throat as she wraps her arms around me. 

I often forget how small she is. She has to go on her toes to put her chin on my shoulder. Normally, I bend down a bit for her comfort, but right now I need to have all of her pressed tightly against all of me. But she does not seem to mind. 

She runs her hand through my hair. Her fingers brush against the back of my neck every so often, reminding me again that there is no rope around me.

Her hair is in my face and it gets into my mouth as I gasp in the air that I could not before. It seems so easy to breathe when she touches me, and I quickly forget how the suffocation had felt.

I know this feeling will not last. She will leave, and I will feel the rope again, but at this moment, I am free of the agony.

So I pull her in even closer and I breathe her in. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think!


End file.
